


Heavenly Matrimony

by httpthor



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Ritual Public Sex, Rituals, Time Skips, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 21:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/httpthor/pseuds/httpthor
Summary: The day of your wedding arrives.





	Heavenly Matrimony

Before your first breath, you were sold in a bargain between two kings on a mutual quest for sempiternal peace. A bloody war that had stretched far and wide to every corner of the cosmos and claimed the lives of millions was ended with a single deal. For armistice to reign over all the nine realms, the chief of the Æsir and god of Vanir agreed that their two heirs would wed on the night of the forthcoming Great Blót. The prophesied and revered god of thunder and goddess of fertility would knit in matrimony and solidify an entrenched troth of tranquility between the two worlds forever.

After five hundred years of ignorance, you come to learn of your predestined fate in the set modus operandi that all women of your creed do. A bite out of a violet apple from any tree found on Alfheim reveals that which is secret and also true. These enchanted fruits blessed by the hands of Freyja are an oracle that show the future to whoever eats of them and blesses the consumer in abundance in whatever they may lack, whether it be poor health or a broken heart.

A small excursion outside the walls of the castle you once called home brings you face to face with an evergreen that stands just as tall as the clouds in the sky. It’s branches stretch for yards and it’s many large roots dig deep into the terrain.

Maidens who share your heritage as well as Ragna, the ambassador of Alfheim serves as a witness to the ceremony. Silently they watch while you circle the giant tree in search of the ripest and most vibrant of fruits three times for a stroke of good luck.

Once settling on a particularly delicious looking purple apple, you pluck it from the tree and take a hefty bite from its sweet center. As the saccharine juices melt on the berth of your tongue and begin to manipulate your senses, the world as you know it diminishes. A sea of black swallows you up then and as quickly as it appears, its gone. What follows this phantasm is a string of short reveries far too great for your mind to possibly conjure on its own accord.

The first of visions send a kilig coursing through your entranced body. In it, thousands upon thousands of people can be seen in a number that’s too massive to try and estimate. From their mouths sing a symphony of praises that seem to possess power that can shake the foundations of heaven. Their eyes are steadily aimed at you and the figure standing right next to you. At your side, you behold an aureate creature with golden mane and the grandest of faces who turns to fondly survey your own in the same moment as if on cue. His arms are raised high and you notice that yours are as well, the fingers of the right hand tangled with the left of his in a tight hold.

The next presents you sitting in a vast field of flowers and under the blue abyss of the sky. A hand comes to rest on your swollen stomach that’s large beneath a white linen dress. Seated adjacent to you is the same man from the first apparition, wearing a similar smile that makes his bright eyes appear as little crescents. His mouth opens, lips moving with words that you can’t manage to hear and then his hand on your belly continues to rub lovingly until his person drifts away along with the backdrop.

Awakening with a start, you spit the remains of the apple into the lush grass beneath your feet and look up to find your subjects watching on with eager expressions. Of them all, Ragna is the least bit interested. Her amber eyes twinkle with knowing and without exchanging a word you know then that she has seen what you have.

The rest of the congregation is met by disappointment when you choose to withhold the information you’ve just obtained and curtly order for a return home immediately.

“Before your first breath, you were sold in a bargain between two kings on a mutual quest for sempiternal peace. A bloody war that had stretched far and wide to every corner of the cosmos and claimed the lives of millions was ended with a single deal. For armistice to reign over all the nine realms, the chief of the Aesir and god of Vanir agreed that their two heirs would wed on the night of the forthcoming Great Blót. The prophesied and revered god of thunder and goddess of fertility would knit in matrimony and solidify an entrenched troth of tranquility between the two worlds forever.”

Your eyes wildly dance back and forth between both Ragna and your mother as she casually resumes sipping her herbal tea as if she hasn’t just dropped the hugest of bombs on you. “I beg your pardon?”

“You, my sweet girl, are betrothed to Odin’s firstborn, Thor.” Gerda repeats calmly in her familiarly soft-spoken manner without breaking her serious veneer.

The tickled cackle you let out is harsh to the ear and unlike that of a lady. Gerda’s disrelish for the peal of laughter is clear as day when she wrinkles her nose up at the sound.

“Freyr,” You sober up fast and turn to examine your silent father who sits at the head of the large oak table that stretches expansively in the grand hall where dinner is being served, “Is this true?”

He pauses in thoughtlessly fingering the rim of his goblet and directs his attention to you, the eldest daughter of his many offspring. As self- composed as his other half, he nods solemnly. “Yes, it is.”

Freyr is a lot of different things. Lord of the elves, ruler of your home realm, a god of peace, fertility, rain, and sunshine, and also your father, but one title that he has never worn is that of a liar. In the few centuries that you’ve known him, he has never once uttered a lie. He is strictly a teller of the truth and greatly values candor. So when he speaks these three confirming words, all the skepticism you hold in your heart ebbs away.

“I-I cannot believe this…” You murmur more to yourself than anyone else present, struggling to grapple with the truth. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t any of you tell me this earlier?”

Ragna hems awkwardly from her station near the set of double doors to the side of you, her head hung low.

“There was no reason for us to worry you with a political decision that didn’t concern you,” Freyr answers.

“That didn’t concern me?” You echo in a raised tone, voice trembling. “Please tell me you hear how absurd you sound right now. You didn’t think that I should be informed that you sold my life away to some beast over in the next world without my consent and before I was even born? And really, a political decision? Is that all that I am to you? What a damned foolish thing to say!”

“Elskan mín—” Gerda starts, sincere concern etched into the lines of her face.

“Enough.” You blurt, abruptly pushing away and standing from the table. “I am disgusted by your selfish actions and can no longer continue to sit here like everything is fine when it’s not. For Freyja’s sake, I have spent the last half of a millennium living in ignorance and now… Now I have learned the harsh truth about myself, that I am nothing but an insignificant whore and one of many sacrifices on your climb for power. I may not have the capability to change what has already been set in stone, but know that I will never forgive either of you for this and I hope that the guilt of your sins eats away at you until the end of time.” With teary eyes and a painful lump in the throat, you meanly glare at both of your parents before making a hasty exit.

Ragna is right on your trail and snatches you up by the arm into the closest vacant room for some privacy. With the small wave of her hand and a little magic, the door locks and then she’s rounding on you in a fury. “You have no right to be angry.” She hisses in a whisper, venom dripping from every word. “It is your inherited duty to serve Alfheim and it is an honor that you should be grateful for.”

“Forgive me, but I am struggling to see what’s so noble about being whored out. I didn’t sign up for this and it is not an honor, but rather an incubus that I desperately want to wake from.”

The sharp wit of your tongue earns you a stinging slap across the face and you cup the stricken cheek with a pained hiss, rubbing at the sensitive skin. “It would be a wise decision for you to shut your filthy mouth and listen. That mouth will bring you a world of trouble if you don’t learn to tame it. Especially so once you arrive at Asgard. It will not be tolerated.”

You don’t challenge the elder, bowing your head in submission.

“Now, ” She composes herself, smiling wide and viciously. “Be a good girl and stop with the senseless whining. I highly doubt that your new husband will have a liking for it.”

After the life changing revelation, a series of seasons and days pass. With gradual time, you metamorphose from a babe into a full-fledged elf. Gone goes the playthings, the childlike wonder, and the freedom of a shapeless body. In place of these treasures that you once held close to your heart comes the drastic physical transformation, duties of a princess, and fear of the future. But one consistency that never changes is your hatred for your parents.

For the sake of keeping up appearances to the public, you play the role of a good daughter to a tee so well that you convince yourself on numerous occasions that there is no malice in your heart. But every night, a bit of that pent up anger oozes out and you let loose wails that cause your chest to ache and shake the walls of your bedchamber. The woe racks your body so much that your shoulders shake with fatigue until the next morning and your eyes become so startlingly glossy and red that your own help gasps at the ghastly sight upon waking you.

Within the next decade, you learn to adapt to your pain and figure that there is no use in moping around until your inevitable departure. Instead, you decide that in order to hold on to a sliver of your sanity that your anger should be channeled into production.

Alfheim is home to millions of youth and being a lover of children, you dedicated all leisure time to creating educational courts and recreational oasis’s that will stand for an entirety even when you are long gone. Short-lived reclusion blossoms into a fresh passion to teach and the last of your days are spent guiding and frolicking with the young kin.

Along with being a teacher, you also became a student of sorts. To prepare for the inevitable and forthcoming day of your wedding, you had to undergo a series of educational courses that taught you everything there was to know. The traditional rituals and requirements are drilled into your brain until you can list them in great detail backward and forward.

By the time the Asgardians send for you via the Bifrost, you are more than ready for the life that awaits you. With Ragna at your side, you wave your final farewells to the sea of gathered light elves and depart in an iridescent flash.

 

On a bright spring tide Friday, you awake in a foreign bedroom to a buffet of breakfast and group of royal servants. They explain that they are here to prepare you for the ceremony and after stuffing your stomach full with enough ambrosial food to feed a small cadre, they begin the long process of making you fit for a king.

One chambermaid rids you of the sleeping gown you wore the night before and you are left naked. The cold of the room rouses bumps to cover the entirety of your body and your exposed nipples pebble at the exposure. If that’s not embarrassing enough, Ragna and your soon-to-be mother soon join the small population of women in the room. Just how many are going to impose on your privacy and see you in a state of undress? Embarrassed, you drop your gaze to the floor.

A bath is then drawn in the claw foot tub in the center of the extravagant bedchamber. Citrus and jasmine scented substances are poured in and hot stones are placed in the tub to produce steam.

After running a hand through the water as if to test it’s temperature, an amiable girl who looks no older than you beckons you over. Carefully, you ease yourself down into the hot tub and gradually relax against the cool back of it. Tense when two sets of hands dip back in and start to lather soap on your skin, but calm at the gentle petting.

Æsir tea is brewed and served to the nobles as they lounge by the balcony, it’s doors opened and passing a fresh breeze of the wind through it. The sky is a startling shade of cerulean and in the distance, two twin planets can be faintly seen.

“It is such a blessing that the cosmos have seen fit for the sun to reign today. I feared that it might rain,” Frigga states to obviously initiate some conversation and break the silence.

Ragna nods with a hum, taking a small sip from the teacup that looks miniature in her large hands. Any other time, you’d find this hilarious, but lack the humor to in the moment. “Yes, it’s a very nice day for a wedding.”

The pair continue to converse quietly amongst themselves, but you don’t bother with straining to listen to the nitty gritty details.

In contrast, you bask in the many luxuries provided to you. Plates of tasty pastries are brought over at your call and you greedily devour the colorful ambrosia, ravenous thanks to fasting for the last three days as tradition demands.

Once your appetite is sated and the bath ends, you step out of the tub just to be swarmed by the servants. Their voices carry loudly as they speak both to you and their equals. Questions are passed your way: Which color dress do you prefer? Lace or no? Care for any more bread? The series of them are thrown at once and you answer fast: Crimson. No, I don’t like lace. No thank you.

Fabrics of every variant known to exist are thrown to and fro as the parlour maids diligently work to make you a suitable bride for their king and your soon-to-be husband. Fuchsias, white, silver, you name it, they have it. Velvets, satins, chiffons, charmeuse, everywhere you look there is a mountain of material being piled up on the floor and brought into the room.

The senior maid, Vasati, is the choirmaster who guides her personnel to pick up this, drop that, and hurry like it’s an orchestra of sorts. At her order they do whatever needs to be done while she too appreciates a cup of tea.

Hilariously, you stick out in the same way that a sore thumb might amongst the frenzied group. Amidst the waves of commotion that wane and wax in constance, there’s you, stiffly standing in the thick of it without a clue of what to do with yourself.

The maids experiment on you like you are a doll, marking your skin in divers hues of maquillage to see what will look the absolute best and try styling your hair in fashions that seem too outlandish for your taste, but appear to be quite popular here on Asgard.

When the final touches to your look are done, a collective inhale leaves all the maids. They look on in wide-eyed admiration and marvel at their handy work; their combined perfervid murmurs growing steadily.

“So beautiful. Wait until the king sees her.”

“I can already picture the gobsmacked look on his face now.”

“He’ll be left moonstruck. That’s for sure.”

“I bet you five pennigs that he’ll stammer and stumble through his vows after one look at her.”

The animated commentary brings a genuine smile to your daubed, blood-red lips as you glide through the dividing sea of bodies. Mirrors can be found nearly everywhere in the extravagant bedroom, so it doesn’t take you long to find one and settle in front of it.

The woman that tentatively stares back at your reflection sends a nervous shock through you. Perhaps it’s because of the foreign makeup or the incredibly fancy dress that looks like it was designed by the magical hands of the stars. Either way, you are left breathless and can’t seem to find the strength to tear your eyes away.

Vatasi, the senior housemaid eventually steps into peripheral vision with clasped hands and amiable hope dancing in her kind eyes. “Well, m’lady, what do you think?”

“You and your girls have done a splendid job. I appreciate you doing this for me; truly.” You thank in utmost sincerity, turning back to face the group.

“It has been an honor.” She proudly nods before grabbing the hem of her skirt and curtsying. Following suit of their superior, every girl in the room lowers into a deep curtsy and you return the favor with one of your own, careful not to knock off the crown of priceless jewels laid atop of your head.

It happens then.

A symphony of instruments begin to ring in euphonious unison; the blare of them so extremely deafening that a dull ache starts in your ears. The tintinnabulation of bells, the resounding, brassy tone of horns, and vibrating buzz of golden trumpets sing on for what feels like forever, but realistically only lasts for mere seconds. And then as fleeting as the wind, the fanfare stops altogether and becomes an occurrence of the past. It’s impact sits heavy over the whole of Asgard and you in particular.

This can mean only one thing. You’ve spent the last couple decades of your life researching all that you could about the Æsir traditions and by now know them like the back of your hand. Surely this isn’t Ragnarok, the end for all gods and destruction of Asgard, because you highly doubt that the banshee scream of Gjallarhorn would be as upbeat as the horn that life was just blown into. The sound would be a lot more ominous and ear-shatteringly loud that every realm in the cosmos could hear it. Also, that would be awfully horrible timing to finish saying “I do” just to be split down the very middle by Surtur’s sword as he drives it deep into the soul of the planetoid. With that crossed off the short list of probable causes for the ceremonial tune, you come to the conclusion and realization that this is the moment that you’ve dreaded for a lifetime. It has finally caught up with you and there’s no time to run from it.

Ragna comes to stand at your side, placing a semi-comforting hand on your shoulder and Frigga nods towards the doors before her kind eyes fall on you. “It is time.”

The commencement of your wedding is here.

 

A stampede of clicking heels pulsate off the high walls as you are led from one section of the royal palace to the next, followed in suit by an entourage of servants who lift the train of your dress as not to get it dirty or lead to a fall.

The grand halls are barren of life, but throb with an unexplainable degree of excitement that belongs more to the Asgardians than you. Your palms are wet with perspiration and the beating of your heart is erratic, thumping wildly against its fleshly confinements. Each step that’s taken brings you closer to the fate you have loathed and prayed against it, and it takes everything in you not to combust in flames there on the spot.

Not long later, you emerge by a set of golden doors. From the other side of them the roaring of a crowd can be heard and the walls seem to shake at every shout that travels through the mass of people. This enkindles fear to rise in your chest and you step back afraid.

A hand grabs your arm and you turn to find an affable brunette standing out amongst the other abigails who’ve prepared you up to this moment.

“Fear not. This is not an uproar, but a paean. The people of Asgard are rejoicing at this blessed unionship. For they already love you as we do.” She smiles angelically with tears in her eyes as the surrounding girls whisper their agreement. “This is the day we have all been waiting for. Our queen has arrived.”

You fail to respond due to shock and because the soldiers posted outside the mighty doors suddenly push them open.

In an instant, every head turns, the chaotic stir allays and hundreds of guests go quiet. A thousand of eyes drink up the sight of you in wonder; gasps and murmurs of awe ricocheting from the walls. Butterflies flutter crazily in your stomach as you meekly survey the gathered crowd of nobles in return. There are too many faces and colors to look at. Too many thoughts swimming in the air that trying to juggle and read each one of them would ultimately lead to insanity. So to prevent falling victim to an anxiety attack, you make the wise decision to stare straight ahead at nothing in particular.

At your entry, an orchestra that you can’t locate begins to play a rich chorale that quickly builds in tempo and taking this as a cue, you start to walk. Your eyes drift to the throne, where the Allfather presiding over the procession stands, and beside him, Thor.

The rutilant of his skin is what gives him away. If that isn’t a clear enough indicator, the potent aura pouring off of him in waves definitely is. He stands tall and proudly like any god should, his golden hair aflame of it’s own accord and his cobalt eyes sparkling bright. Beside him is the god of mischief and his younger brother, Loki, who apparently wears the constant wry smirk found in ancient artwork in reality as well.

The marriage ceremonies of both Alfheim and Asgard have their similarities. For instance, both are thankfully short. After meeting your soon-to-be husband at the altar, Odin comes to stand over you and Thor to bless the marriage through a polix speech. Ragna is then invited to act in Freyr’s stead and gives you away.

In addition, Thor presents you Odinsword, the sword that once belonged to his father, which you are intended to keep for any of the future sons that you may have. In turn, Ragna also hands you a heavy and intricately designed sword, one of your ancestors. This sacred exchange symbolizes a transfer of a father’s protection of the bride to the husband and sacred union sanctified by mystic rites. Following this, two rings are drawn to further consecrate the wedding vows. Thor’s a gold band and yours is a sunrise ruby. Rather than to give each other the invaluable presents through sliding them on the finger of the other, the rings are offered on the hilt of your swords. Then comes the part where Odin takes the altar again and blesses the union once more. Frigga joins her husband and hallows your newborn marriage with undying peace, an abundance of love, and fertility. Together you recite the words of a mutual promise, pledging your troth.

Throughout speaking your separate wedding vows, Thor stares fixedly and unwaveringly at you. He smiles wide and warmly as he recites his own. Your face burns under the heat of his unrelenting gaze and you try to smile back, but nerves render you weak.

This is only the second time that you’ve seen your husband in person and your impression of him has yet to change. Your heartbeat seems to always triple at the sight of him and you doubt that you’ll ever have the brawn to vanquish this fluttering stir that possesses you with every glance at him.

One month prior, Thor extended an invitation to you to meet for the first time at Bilskirnir and there you spoke in privacy, save for the fact that two of his men stood post outside the office. It was interesting encounter, awkward in the way that all first meetings are. You trucked common pleasantries and questions. He inquired basic things such as: What’s your favorite color? How was life back on Alfheim? What are you looking forward to here on Asgard? You answered back politely and asked in return: Will we live here at your house or in the castle? What’s the weather like in the winter? How’s life as a king?

The ceremony wraps up when you slip on your rings, and lock hands and fingers with Thor. Turning to face the gathered crowd, Odin and Frigga officially announce you to Asgard as verr and hustru. The easy part is done and the worst looms on close behind.

Subsequently, a lively banquet follows and it’s even extraordinarily larger than the wedding was. Hundreds of people fill into the dining hall, yet miraculously there’s still ample space. The long tables cut from driftwood stretch on for miles, blanketed in a wide array of food that could easily serve twice as many people present if necessary. Thor and you sit in the middle of the largest table found in the hall. Odin at his son’s side and Ragna respectively on yours.

Conversation flows swimmingly betwixt the assembled lot of nobles. Barrels upon barrels of the best mead are rolled in and placed at every corner of the room, at the full disposal of the crowd. Seeing the entry of said large brown kegs starts a chaotic storm of demands which leads to many servants rushing to fill and carry goblets.

Before dinner is served, Odin makes a toast to you and the first serving presented to Thor is presented by you with a vessel known fittingly as a loving-cup. Your hands visibly shake as you bring the chalice to his lips and after noticing, he covers them with his own to guide them. His soft looking lips break into a small reassuring smile and then he takes a particularly lengthy gulping sip from the cup, eyes trained on yours.

When he parts, a little of the honey based ale drips down from the corner of his lip and before you can register the reflex, your thumb wipes the droplet away. The gesture is met by shock from both you and Thor.

“Thank you.” He utters huskily, tonguing the residue of the alcohol near his mouth.

You nod dumbly and blink long and hard. His beauty is divine beyond comprehension and intoxicating mead that you greedily want to drink up without resting to catch a breath.

The chortle Thor gives is like brontide, powerful and surprisingly melodious. You want to hear it again.

“So, is my wife always this taciturn or is it the nerves?” He asks amused, setting the goblet down on the table top before placing a hand on the back of your chair. His full attention is no longer on his friends that sit close by, but you.

Before you speak, you take a swig of mead from the same cup that he set down to build some liquor courage. “I’m usually quite talkative, but at the moment, extremely nervous. I don’t know what to say to you and don’t want to make myself look foolish.”

He listens intently and hums nodding. It’s too loud to speak at a normal volume so he leans in when he speaks so that you can hear. “That’s completely understandable, considering our bizarre situation. Believe it or not, I’m nervous too.” He whispers the last sentence as if it’s a big secret that he doesn’t want to spread.

You crack a genuine smile at the absurdity of his words. “The god of thunder, nervous?”

“Crazy, I know. But I want to let you know that you are not alone. If there is anyone here who can understand what you are feeling, it’s me.” His hand seeks out your smaller one nestled in your lap and envelopes it in entirety. “We are in this together.”

Those five words play on repeat in your head when the feast comes to an end. At the cheer of the crowd you are led away to private quarters to prepare for the last missing piece of this matrimonial ceremony. The consummation. Flowers are thrown at your feet and there’s the rowdy shouts and hollers from the masculine population of guests, notably from those at your very own table. Thor’s very drunk pals (Fandral, Hogun, and Volston as you’ve come to learn) hoot and yell lasciviously, patting him on the back in morale-boosting. A phlegmatic onlooker throughout the feast, Loki’s demeanor cracks when he snobbishly snorts and shakes his head at the libertines. To your surprise, Thor is the most reserved despite his reputation for being quite rambunctious. He simply offers up a gentle smile and lifts his chalice in your direction.

Once behind closed doors, your coruscant wedding dress is stripped off your person and the servants from earlier rush to smear an oil that smells of rosemary over every inch of your body. After this, a jar comes into view.

“And what is that?” You curiously speak up Vasati as she unscrews the lid to reveal a thick cream.

“Salve.” She answers, dipping a set of fingers in the clear substance and presenting them to you afterward. Your eyes widen. Is that really necessary?

She notes your look of bewilderment and can’t hold back a snicker. “His majesty’s endowment surpasses that of brawn. He isn’t known as the mighty hammerer for naught. The salve will be of great help to you during and after.”

At a loss for words, you shut your mouth and let her finish the up close and personal task at hand. You go deathly still as a hand disappears down below between your legs and a second later, her fingertips probe your genitalia. In a rigorous manner, she spreads the ointment down between your folds and at your entrance. It dully tingles as it settles in. A subtle nudge confirms that your hymen is very much intact and then the procedure is over.

Succeedingly, a gown that’s equally as beautiful as your earlier attire but seemly for the occasion is presented to you. It’s watsonia white, floor-length and the high slits sliced into the sides are flirtatiously revealing, giving a peek at skin.

“Go gracefully and serve righteously,” Ragna whispers before your departure. It’s her quirky way of giving a little encouragement.

You take it gladly and repeat it as you walk down the halls, followed by a company once again.

Asgard is bustling with life post the first royal wedding in eons. The people of the land, both common and elite, break out into parties and fill the streets to celebrate the unionship of their king and his new queen. Back at the palace, yet another jollification has begun. The Great Blót is a ceremony that involves making sacrifices in the honor of the gods, in this case, you and Thor. It will last for seven straight days; a yoctosecond to the race of deities.

Underneath the scintillating stars and behind the high walls that enclose the palace, the royal grounds are packed as the fete is in full swing. A combination of smoke and magic hovers thickly in the atmosphere. The healthy grass is stained orange due to the illumination of a series of bonfires burning in sporadic stationery. Flickering black shadows dance about as hundreds drunkenly balter to the beat of enchanted instruments and mill around in the woods.

En route to the consummation site, you catch glimpses of the wild shenanigans happening directly in the royal’s backyard. It’s a strange, yet orphic sight.

The chaotic scene playing out renders you shocked, slack-jawed in passing a cluster well invested in what can be best described as an orgy. The reek of feral sex and the copper tang of blood from animal sacrifices fills your nose, infiltrating the air.

In the procession to your destination, lustful eyes follow closely, lasciviously running over you.

Through a thicket of trees, bodies flock towards a hill where blinding white light emerges. When you tread closer, girded by your bridal retinue, a literal house of glass comes into view. Its walls are wide and high, inner contents displaying an enormous bed cornered. The reason for its transparency is obvious as there must be witnesses to attest that the marriage is complete. A fine veil of purple vibrates off the walls with a hum that pulsates dully like a beating drum.

Upon stepping inside, you realize the purple you see is a glamour of magic that distorts the glass to create a privacy shield. Onlookers can perfectly see in, but you can't see out. All that you can make out are blurred silhouettes that shift in slow motion and there is no noise.

“Huh.” You whisper awestruck, tempted to run a hand over the heated crystal, but decide against it.

Alone in a glass cage and with little time to spare, you take to observing the sacred setting. The large bed is dressed in what appears to be the hide of some beastly animal, it’s fur silky smooth to the touch. Snow white for a specific reason — to serve as true evidence of a deflowering, despite the testimonies that will also come.

This is the part that you’ve studied for a long stretch of time. The part where you are expected to submissively lay down and patiently wait to be walked in on by your groom. But a rebellious entity that’s seemingly just recently slipped into your body, a sly and unsuspected possession, stops you. An invisible lasso pulls insistently at your waist as if to keep you from climbing on the bed and whirls you around right as Thor enters through the penetrative barrier.

The high pitched yelp in your throat perishes fast. Zounds. For the love of Freyja. By Odin’s Beard. There aren’t enough pantheon sayings in the whole nine realms that can accurately express the feelings that quell you when cool and bulged orbs hasp. Under the brilliant lighting provided by the grand chandeliers hanging overhead, you realize that his eyes are mismatched. One brown and the other blue. How had you missed this earlier? The ambiguous intensity of being looked directly in the eyes and covered in goosebumps results in feeling extreme vulnerability — opia.

Hair-splitting details that are normally deemed so insignificant suddenly have worth. The faint scar striped down the side of his cheek. Crooked cleft of his tawny beard. Hearing the thudding heart rapidly beat a loud thrum through the bone and tissue that is his chest. Could this be the phenomenon that Midgardians call Love at First Sight?

For an extensive moment, neither dare move or speak. Possibly from mutual fear of disrupting this feel-good, serene peace. But as the phrasing goes, all good things must come to end. In this case, however, perhaps something greater will follow.

The tickling brush of smoothly calloused fingertips against your hand is what brings you back down to Asgard. “Hey there.” Thor begins as feeble attempt to strike up conversation while caressing a subtle shapeless trace into the heel of your hand, touch familiar.

It’s foreign, this energy being transferred between you and unlike anything you’ve experienced. You are basically strangers, yet there’s a sense of authentic naturalness in your new relationship like you already know each other well.

”Hi.” You greet quietly, bashfully breeching eye contact every few seconds.

”I know that this is awkward, but don’t focus on our lookers-on. It's easier said than done, but act like they're not here.” He gently advises with a light squeeze to your hand. “It’s just you and I.”

You nod, taking heed of his guidance and consuming it fast. When a sudden thought covers your mind, you speak up. “I-I heard that they leave when...”

“I deflower you?” Thor suggests, hitting the nail right on the head.

You nod again, face hot at the mere mention of the act. Deflowering is such a horrible word for this. “Yes, that. I was just wondering if we could maybe, uh, speed up the process to get it done fast?”

“I don’t want to hurt you—“ “You won’t.”

You quickly deject. “I can handle this.”

“Are you sure?” He asks concerned.

”Yes...” Thor searches your face briefly for even the smallest sign of uncertainty before he hems his agreement. ”Alright then. If you ever want to stop, tell me.”

The flimsy band that holds your dress together is unfastened by diligent hands that don’t want to break it and after receiving an approving nod from you, they pull the gown apart down the middle. An appreciative sigh leaves the god then as he sweeps over your naked body. Never have you ever been looked in such a light before. Being clearly desired makes the blood drain from your head and rush to your throbbing nether regions.

Thor turns on his back and lifts those sharply cut hips from off the mattress to pull down his silky drawers. Mouth wet, you watch as sun-kissed skin from below the hem becomes visible. A honey brown happy trail trickles down into a thick patch of curls and a harder tug sets free ‘The Mighty Hammer’. It springs to attention against his navel, the head already weeping precome.

Without thinking, you moan wanton and loud. Unmistakably so.

Thor acknowledges the call of dormant desire with a low rumbling hum. “Hold on, little one. I’m going to take care of you.”

The bedcovering slides underneath your naked bodies as Thor moves between your glossy legs, spreading them. His lips approach yours with gradual timidness as if it’s his first time when ironically, it's yours. They don’t nip or take too much too fast. They smoothly glide along yours with patience and skill that can only be acquired through years of experience. He tastes like beer and the twangy cream tart that you watched him garble down during the feast.

While bewitching you with a spellbinding kiss, his hand ventures to the junction of your creamy thighs and swipes through the petal soft folds. He pauses to test your reaction to his touch. When you don’t protest, he lets his deft fingers coax your pussy further to life. The salve greatly enhances each stroke and attributes to the abundance of slick arousal that seeps free.

The pleasure is bittersweet, addicting, but also overwhelming. If he continues like this any longer, there’s not a chance that you way you will last.

“Do it now.” You whine girlishly against his mouth, wispy beard cutting into your soft skin.

“Right now?”

“Yes, now. I can handle it.”

Thor hesitates as he isn’t convinced and you can’t blame him for it. Frankly, you are lying to yourself and him. He takes it upon himself to work you open more by continuing to rub your clit until he’s certain that you are ready for him. You cry out shrilly, writhing against the fur that’s now too hot underneath your skin, legs starting to tremble in fatigue.

After the rubbing halts, Thor hooks his arms under your thighs and draws your legs up to wrap around his waist. Once comfortable in this new position, he presses his hips forward, his cock’s crown nudging the snug virgin hole. You tense at the foreign intrusion and heave a shaky breath, nervousness at an all time high.

Your hands brace themselves against his chest, feel the adamantine stone-hard muscle there and shiver at the power his body exudes. He is one of the strongest beings to ever live and who fate has saw fit to mark you. That thought settles like bedrock in your stomach; a thrill of excitement churning into a knot, growing taut at the knowledge that he could easily break you without much effort. All it would take is a particularly hard thrust and your pelvic would shatter. If he were to hold your arm too tight, the bones would turn to powder.

The sheer strength that he possesses sends shock and fear coursing through your veins. Noting the volant shift in body language, Thor grabs your attention by cupping your cheek. Thumb strokes circles over the delicate skin, almost caringly and your heart skips a beat not a second later at the gentle gesture.

“Calm yourself and relax. This will be difficult if you don’t.” He forewarns cooing.

Calm down and just relax. Soon this all will be finally over…

In attempt to keep your nerves at bay, Thor continues to murmur sweet soothings as his full body weight perches on you and he slides his cock halfway in.

A collective sharp intake punctures the air — from him because of your hot tightness and from you because of the stretch that burns. It takes immense strength for you not to yell out when Thor sheaths the entirety of his shaft forward with one swift thrust, bottoming out. Mouth drops opened letting out a pitchy yelp that bounces from wall to wall and it’s the loudest you’ve been so far. Damp skin vibrates and breaks out in goosebumps. The pain is piercingly sharp, but fleeting, living very shortly.

After a moment, the rigidity lessens and you adjust around his girth. Deeming it a go to resume, Thor gradually withdraws and snaps his hips back into yours. This pulls a string of airy moans from your swollen lips and redirects his focus on your slightly parted mouth. He ferociously groans low like a rutting beast, tongue swiping over his lips. They glisten a delicious roseate shade, growing even darker once he attaches them to yours.

A galaxy of stars can be seen behind your lids with the first press of his mouth on yours, a big bang occurring with each rub of his tongue against yours. Stars swell and burst, your skin catches in the flames, and you moan weakly.

At that, he parts to catch his breath and his wet lips broadly stretch outwards, teeth showing.“You’re doing beautifully.”

“T-thank you.”

The world evanesces when Thor starts up a steady tempo of thrusting. You forget about the group of witnesses who are definitely on the edge of their seats by now, captivated by the rare sight of a god and goddess mating.

Blissful pleasure strikes you in large waves that wash away self-consciousnesses and unease. You ride atop them masterfully, heartbeat increasing at a brisk rate as he works towards climax. Not selfishly for himself, but you as well.

Thor is the first to unravel. He had been relatively quiet up until that point, save for the occasional howl on particularly hard pounds and rumbling low groans.

When the sensual gratification reaches it’s paramount height, the hand beside your head ripping at the duvet beneath it open, he comes undone with a cry that could rival the rage of lightning and thunder. The sudden rush of come that soaks your inner walls drives the coil that’s steadily wound within your stomach to snap. For a moment, your body violently trembles and you see blinding white light as your vision goes blurry.

Thor aides you in riding out the orgasmic waves on his cock, steadily impaled from to the hilt as he thrusts slovenly. You bawl without restraint or care at the euphoria and troll ardent cries, voice shaky and gruff; music to his ears. It’s then that he realizes how beautiful you are to him, even in this ruffled state with a sweaty face, wild hair, and a less than graceful look on your face. Despite it all, he concludes that likes what he sees and a pride that’s so foreign to him swells in his chest.

Expecting him to roll over to his own side of the bed for the night afterward, you are taken by surprise when he rests behind you. Exhausted and dazed, the pair of you lay in a heap of tangled tan and brown limbs.

Not soon after, you drift into a peaceful state of sleep, but not before being pulled backward into a hard body, a sinewy arm wrapping itself around your waist. You secretively crack a small smile at this and bury your face into the plush pillow beneath your head.

Perhaps the two of you are a decent match, but only time will tell. Luckily, you have lots of that


End file.
